Experiments
by Anna Marchen
Summary: Living at 221B Baker Street meant that John had quickly learnt to expect the unexpected. But coming home from work to find his flatmate slumped to the ground unconscious, blood staining the carpet was something he had never expected. However, is everything what it looks like? Knowing Sherlock, probably not.


_If you recognise it, it's not mine._

* * *

><p>Living at 221B Baker Street meant that John Watson had quickly learned to expect the unexpected. Eyeball in the microwave? Research. Smiley face shot into the wall? Boredom. Violin at two in the morning? Thinking. He had become a master at the apologetic shrug- the one which meant both "Sorry about the insults" and "Yes, he is always like that."<p>

However, coming home after a long day at work, walking up the stairs, and opening the door to discover his flatmate slumped to the ground unconscious, blood staining the carpet around him, was quite definitely something he'd never expected.

* * *

><p>John dropped his bag, falling to his knees beside his friend. Sherlock's eyes flickered slightly. A gasp flew from John's mouth as he saw the dozens of cuts scattered over the detective's torso and limbs.<p>

"Oh god, Sherlock, who did this? What happened?"

Sherlock groaned as John pulled him into a sitting position.

"Did someone break in? Where did they go?"

"John, nobody broke in," Sherlock muttered, speech slurred. John stared at him for a few seconds, mouth open. Then his eyes widened.

"Sherlock, you _didn't._ No. Oh my god. Come on, you're stronger than this. Do you need to go to the hospital? Who am I kidding, I'm a doctor, not a pyschologist. Should I call Mycroft?" As he babbled, he dragged Sherlock onto the couch, laying him down on the cushions gently. Sherlock smiled weakly at him. John continued to fuss over him, wiping away the blood. There was a lot of blood.

"-Seriously, Sherlock, how could you be so _stupid?_ Why would you even want to do something like that? Did you not think? Oh, god, Sherlock, some of these are really deep. You'll need stitches."

He carried on talking like this, half caring doctor and half berating his friend for his stupidity. Eventually, Sherlock began to laugh. John paused from cleaning a cut on his chest to glare at him.

"What's so funny, Sherlock?"

"You think...you think that I-" he dissolved into laughter again, borderline hysterical.

"Sherlock!"

"It's an experiment, John." The next thing Sherlock knew was a searing pain in his left cheek. He cracked open an eye cautiously, and saw John glowering at him furiously.

_"What the hell do you mean, an experiment!"_

Sherlock blinked at him.

"You slapped me."

"Yes, I slapped you! Sherlock, I come home from work, and find you passed out on the floor from blood loss! What the hell were you thinking?"

Sherlock struggled to an upright position. John's face softened as he noticed how pale his friend was.

"Ok, Sherlock. What were you trying to measure this time?"

Sherlock winced, falling back against the cushions.

"I was trying to measure the speed of healing on different areas of the human body, and how the depth to time ratio is affected by location." He gestured to a small notebook, now soaked with blood from the stained carpet. John patted his shoulder.

"You need stitches, Sherlock. You weren't honestly planning on letting all this," he gestured to the mess of cuts, some of which were still bleeding sluggishly, "heal naturally? Have you any idea how long that would take?"

"That was really the point of the experiment," Sherlock mumbled drowsily. With some alarm, John noted that he was paler than ever, and barely managing to lift his eyelids.

"Right, hospital, now. I either call an ambulance or get Greg or Mycroft to send a car. Your pick."

Sherlock groaned feebly.

"You're a doctor, can't you do it," he whined, voice trailing off. John shook his head firmly.

"John, please..."

"Sherlock. I don't have any anaesthetic. If I do it, it's guaranteed to hurt."

"Don'care..." Sherlock's words broke into a jumble of melded syllables. With a twist in his heart, John realised that this was Sherlock as vulnerable as he'd ever seen him. The choice still remained though- force Sherlock to hospital or get him patched up here. With another look at the man on the couch, John got up with a sigh.

"Fine. Let me get some stuff, and I'll get started. This is going to hurt, Sherlock."

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was clenching his teeth to stop himself from crying out as John pulled on the last stitch. The detective's arms and chest resembled a patchwork of thread, skin and plasters over some of the smaller cuts. Sherlock slumped back in his cushions, reaching for his bloodstained shirt. John tossed his dressing gown at him, and the taller man gripped the thick fabric weakly.

"Tea?"

A silent nod.

"Anything to eat?"

Nothing.

"Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?"

"Tuesday?"

"Sherlock. It's Friday. You need to stop doing this."

"Doing what?"

"All this. The silence, the not eating, not sleeping, the 'experiments'. You are going to drink your tea, eat something, and then take a nap."

John surveyed the room distastefully. He still had to try and clean the blood out of the carpet. Mrs Hudson would murder them if she saw it. When the kettle boiled, he made two mugs of tea, a pile of cheese sandwiches and carried the tray through. Sherlock was dizzily staggering around the room, one arm clinging to the shelf as he paused. A look which could only be described as guilt crept onto his face momentarily. John sighed, placing the tray on the coffee table and led Sherlock back to the sofa, supporting him as he stumbled. Apparently the painkillers hadn't kicked in yet.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Text from Lestrade. New case."

John reached for Sherlock's phone, rolling his eyes as he saw the message.

**'Got a case you might like. Dead, no marks, syringe on the floor, but no hostile substance detected. -GL'**

John looked at his friend.

"You're not going anywhere."

"I've already got an idea of what happened."

"You've already passed out once today."

"I'll phone Lestrade and tell him I can't help because you're worried about my blood pressure."

"I'll phone Mycroft."

Sherlock glared at him.

"Look. I'll go, find out as much as I can, and come back. You can drink your tea, eat at least one sandwich and go to bed."

Sherlock groaned, but reached for the mug anyway. John fetched his coat.

* * *

><p>When he got to the scene, Lestrade was pacing up and down. John joined him, walking beside him until he noticed.<p>

"Where's Sherlock?"

"Home."

"What's the great genius doing this time?"

"I got in, and he'd deliberately cut himself, pretty badly-" Lestrade whipped round, eyes flashing in sudden worry.

"He's done _what?!"_

"-for a bloody _experiment,_ if you can believe. He actually didn't look too great, so I threatened to call Mycroft if he didn't stay home and rest."

Lestrade nodded, sighing.

"Anyway, I said I'd come and check this out, but I'll have to be quick."

"God knows what he'll have done by the time you get back."

* * *

><p>As it happened, Sherlock hadn't blown up the flat, or caused himself any further injury. John walked up the stairs tentatively, but walked in to see the tall detective curled up on the sofa, dressing gown wrapped round his body tightly. An empty mug lay on the floor beside him, along with half a sandwich. John snapped a picture with his phone, before walking over to him. For the first time since John had met the man, Sherlock seemed fully asleep, face completely relaxed, breathing deep and even. John shook him awake gently, biting back a laugh as Sherlock blinked, looking around with surprise before focussing on the doctor.<p>

"How are you feeling?" John said. Sherlock ignored his question, eyes scanning over John's clothes and face.

"The case?"

"I noticed more than Anderson, at any rate. The woman died from anaphylactic shock. The syringe was presumably her medication. My theory is that she went out to dinner with her boyfriend or whatever, who didn't know she was allergic. When she got home, the reaction kicked in and she tried to inject herself, but failed and died of anaphylactic shock."

Sherlock shook his head, holding out his hand.

"Photos?" John handed him the phone. Sherlock flipped through the images silently for a few seconds.

"You missed a few crucial details, but a couple less than Anderson. He missed everything. The woman committed suicide. She'd been on a date, and the relationship had been terminated. She's in debt, and her mother recently died. She feels depressed and lonely, and therefore commits suicide. If the syringe was her medicine, why wasn't it in a proper EpiPen? Therefore, she filled a syringe with the substance she has an allergy to, and voilà. Suicide."

John stared at him.

"But... How?"

"The debt? She had an expensive pair of high heels on, but the strap's loose on one. The fact that she chose shoes with a strap shows that she thought about how easy they'd be to walk in, but as one heel has about a centimetre broken off the end, she hasn't thought about it in a while- or can't afford to get it fixed. Her mother was the elderly woman killed in the Orchid case two weeks ago. When we examined the body, there was a photo of both women in her wallet. In your photos, you can see the same photo in the background. Finally, she's wearing a lot of makeup, but nothing round her eyes. She's been on a date, and broken up with her partner. Rather than go home with smudged makeup from crying, she washed it off altogether."

"But, Sherlock, there were no marks on the body, from injections or anything." John interjected. Sherlock sighed at him.

"Her lipstick is smudged, and there are traces on the syringe. Hands shaking, she squirted the liquid straight into her mouth. The allergy kicks in, anaphylactic shock, and she's dead. Suicide."

"Brilliant. I'll just tell Lestrade."

Ten minutes later, Mrs Hudson came upstairs. She found Sherlock slumped against John's shoulders, face creased in pain. John was typing on his laptop.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything, boys?"

Sherlock groaned in response, shifting so that the dressing gown fell off his shoulders. Mrs Hudson gasped as she saw the stitches.

"Oh, Sherlock. What have you done to yourself now?"

"Don't ask," John said, still typing. "He's just annoyed that I won't let him have any more painkillers."

John continued to type into his blog. Mrs Hudson left the room, but suddenly stopped, staring from the bloodstain on the carpet to Sherlock with a dangerous look.

"Sherlock, dear-"

_Living at 221B meant that John Watson had quickly learned to expect the unexpected._

"Can I just ask something?"

_Eyeball in the microwave?_

_ Research._

"Ask away, Mrs Hudson."

_Smiley face shot into the wall?_

_Boredom._

"There seems to be a bit of a mess."

_Violin at two in the morning?_

_Thinking._

"Is there?"

_Bloodstained flat and unconscious flatmate?_

"What have you done to my blooming carpet!"

_Experiment._


End file.
